Free A Family Affair: Winter: Truth in Lies, Book 1 by Mary Campisi Page B

only other times he experienced anything close to joy was when he was making furniture. The feel of the wood in his hands, the smell of a fresh cut of oak or mahogany, the planning and design of a chair, a desk, a dresser, all of this brought him peace and made him forget the unfortunate circumstances of his life: the near bankruptcy of his business, the duty to his dead father that would not permit him to leave the company, the self-imposed solitude, the plight of his mother, the hatred toward Charles Blacksworth.
    Even dead, Nate hated the man. The bastard had been a coward, leading two separate lives, refusing to choose one over the other. He’d stolen the best of both worlds: wealth and prestige from one, refuge from the other. Goddamn Charles Blacksworth and his weakness to hell.
    Nate knew about duty, knew what it meant to forge ahead when the last drops of sweat were wrung out and all a person wanted to do was scream “Enough.” His own father died when he was twelve, left Jack Finnegan to teach Nate about the business. And he’d wanted that connection with his father, wanted it so badly that he’d gone to the shop every day, stuck his hands in oil and learned the machines, all of them, working until the smoky oil smell saturated his clothes, seeped into his pores, and there was no way out, not even when he discovered the love of crafting wood.
    His mother told him that he and Charles Blacksworth were more alike than he knew. She said they were both too bound by duty to live their own lives. But she’d been wrong. He was nothing like that sonofabitch.
    “Nate? Nate?”
    “Huh?” He looked down at his sister, tried to clear his head.
    “Do you?”
    “Do I what?”
    She nudged him in the shoulder. “Do you think Christine is sad like me?”
    Christine.  “I’m sure she’s sad.”
    “Probably crying, too.” A tear trickled down her cheek.
    “Probably.” He wrapped his arms around her, wishing he’d never heard the Blacksworth name.
    “She’s so pretty, isn’t she?”
    “Yeah, she’s pretty.” Lily was in awe of Christine Blacksworth; hero worship was a better term. Ever since the day she’d opened Charles’s briefcase and found the picture of her older half sister sitting on a white horse decked out in fancy riding gear, she’d been obsessed with her. There was an album by her nightstand filled with pictures: Christine at eight, holding a black puppy; Christine at fifteen, singing in the high school choir; Christine at sixteen, in a long dress standing next to a gangly boy in braces; Christine at seventeen, holding a golf club; Christine at twenty-one, on vacation in Rome.
    Christine, Christine, Christine . He knew all about her, more than he’d ever cared to, and it all came from Lily. She’d pump Charles every month, eager to glean a tidbit, mix new findings to old, constructing a heroine in the likeness of Christine Blacksworth.
    And until a few weeks ago, Christine Blacksworth hadn’t even known Lily existed.
    “Do you think Mom will ever let me get a horse?”
    She meant, like the one in Christine’s picture. “I don’t know, Lily. Animals are a lot of work.”
    “I want a white one, and a fancy hat with boots.”
    He stroked her hair and said nothing.
    “A black hat.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “And I’ll zoom, fast.”
    “You will, huh?”
    She pulled away, her thick black hair bobbing up and down as she nodded. “Uh-huh.” She clapped her hands together, yelled, “Fast!”
    Nate laughed, too. “Why don’t you go fast”—he paused, smacked his own hands together— “and put on those little dance slippers you got for Christmas and I’ll play while you twirl around the room?”
    Lily giggled, clapped her hands. “And then can we have hot chocolate with marshmallows by the fire?”
    “Are you sure you don’t just come here for the hot chocolate?”
    She let out a half-giggle, wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a kiss on the cheek, her lips moist, smelling